


POI drabbles & minific collection

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Crack, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Genderbending, Leather Jackets, M/M, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - F/M/M, Topping from the Bottom, Voyeurism, d/s dynamics, top!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3919885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>fem!reese/fem!finch</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. But every fire is a lesson learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fem!reese/fem!finch

 “I brought donuts,” Jane says from the doorway before leaning down to pet Bear.

Harriet looks up from where she has been breaking roughly five federal laws with a few keystrokes.

“Is that a gunshot wound?” she asks, alarmed, getting to her feet quickly enough that a jolt of pain spikes into her leg.

 Harriet abandons her mug of green Sencha tea on the table to limp across the room to Jane, all other tasks momentarily forgotten. She had heard gunshots over the headpiece during Jane’s latest attempt to protect their current number, but as every so often, Jane Reese has failed to mention the fact that not all of them had missed.

“Just a small caliber,” Jane says, placing a box of donuts on the table with her uninjured arm. She pointedly ignores the bullet hole in the shoulder of her blazer, as well as the bloodstain on the shirt below as if she expects spontaneous recovery.

Harriet peels the fabric aside to assess the damage. She is immaculately dressed as always in a tailored grey skirt and flat, comfortable shoes. Her short dark hair and thickly rimmed glasses give her more the air of a CEO or a lawyer than a computer genius who created an omniscient AI.

Jane lets Harriet fuss over her, patiently waiting for the unavoidable reproof.

“A gunfight could have been avoided, if you had listened to my suggestion to escape through the back entrance, Miss Reese” she finally says. “Take that off.”

Jane smirks, her straight black bob falling into her face.

“Harriet, I didn’t know you felt that way about me.”

Harriet honest to god blushes at that, her eyes cast down beyond the dark rim of her glasses.

“I’d rather you don’t die of infection, I’d have to find a replacement for you and you know how much I hate job interviews.”

“You did tie me to a bed during mine. Kinkiest job interview I ever had,” Jane says, grinning, but she does as she’s told.

The gunshot wound is more a graze, really, but she still strips down to her sports bra and sits down on a chair in the library in only bra and suit pants while Harriet tends to the wound with disinfectant and cotton swabs.

Bear whines and curls up on her pillow.

“She’ll live,” Harriet says. “I don’t see much future for the jacket, though.”

“I have about five more of these at home,” Jane says, shrugging.

Harriet gives her a look.

“I have offered you the services of my tailor on more than one occasion.”

Jane grins.

“I like my suits. Detective Carter even looked for a guy in a suit for a while back then because nobody ever got a good look at me.”

“I am sure he was pleasantly surprised by the revelation,” Harriet says, applying sterile gauze and a bandage to Jane’s injury.

“He’s one of the good cops, Harriet. I know you don’t trust him, and I know you trust Detective Fusco even less after what she has been up to with these corrupt cops, but these are the only allies we have right now. And I’d rather have Leona Fusco inside the department than having no inside information at all.”

“There, all done,” Harriet says, stepping back.

Jane cocks her head to the side.

“Thanks. How did you mean that, by the way? Pleasantly surprised?”

Harriet busies herself with wrapping up the spare bandages.

“You are not – well, he probably assumed that you were a man, and you’re – not. Absolutely not.”

“How perceptive of you,” Jane says, standing up and stepping right into her space.

Harriet swallows, clumsily dropping the bandages on the table. What she meant to say is obviously that Jane Reese is not exactly a run of the mill wanted criminal with her sharp cheekbones and the touch of grey at her temples, the way she acquires guns like other women acquire nail polish, and her insistence at throwing herself into dangerous situations without regard for her own life.

“You can put your shirt back on now, Miss Reese,” Harriet says.

“Or you could take off yours,” Jane says, pulling her close by the lapels of her blazer, toppling her a little off balance so she has to take a step closer, until their faces are only inches apart.

“This is a very bad idea, Miss Reese,” Harriet says.

“Say that again.”

Harriet raises her eyebrows.

“This is a very, very bad idea?” Harriet offers.

Jane laughs, and the skin around her eyes crinkles in amusement. It makes her look even more stupidly attractive, and Harriet really hopes that her leg will give out or the building will collapse or something else will happen that will keep her from leaning in and kissing Jane stupid.

“Not that. The last part,” Jane says, voice low.

“Miss Reese?” Harriet asks, and Jane draws in a sharp breath and presses her lips against hers, and every bit of common sense leaves Harriet’s body at the first electrifying touch.

Jane kisses with her whole body, her hands coming up to curl at the nape of Harriet’s neck, to stroke her shoulders, her hips swaying against Harriet’s in a way that is frankly distracting.

Harriet kisses her back, grabbing fistfuls of her shirt with both hands, before she manages to tear herself away with wide eyes.

“You’re my employee,” she manages. “This is so unethical.”

Jane reaches down to open the button on Harriet’s pants and draw down the zipper, unfazed.

“I quit for the night. You can hire me again tomorrow, if that will make you feel better. Now sit down, or your back will kill you tomorrow,” Jane says.

Harriet blinks down at her through her glasses.

“I really don’t see how –”, she starts, except then Jane tugs her pants and underwear down and sinks to her knees in one fluid motion. She noses her way into Harriet’s curls and Harriet’s knees buckle, letting her fall back into the chair behind her.

Harriet stares up at the ceiling, hands curled tightly around the armrests.

“You will be the death of me,” she mumbles, putting one hand on Jane’s head, softly stroking her hair.

“I aim to please,” Jane says with a wicked smirk.


	2. I'll take your heart (to kick around as a toy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> grace/harold/john, grace/john, pegging, D/s undertones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a gift for Daisy (teaanddenial)!

There are drops of sweat running down John’s back where he is spread out in front of her, face buried in the sheets and panting, and Grace leans down to lick them off his skin. 

 

John shudders.

 

“John, are you quite alright? You seem a bit tense,” Harold says, an amused curl to his lips. 

 

Harold is leaning against the headboard, still fully clothed, and Grace feels tempted to get her hands on that pretty bespoke suit and rip it right off him.  
John raises his head long enough to give Harold an annoyed look, except then Grace pushes forward with her hips, one long sweet slide that leaves John shaking with want, and he drops his head and groans into the sheets. 

 

The harness is leather, expensive, too, by the way it fits snugly around Grace’s hips, and with every thrust of her hips the base of the dildo rides up against her clit, making her curl her toes in pleasure. She has a firm grip on John’s thighs, only moving bare inches against him, and she can tell that it takes all of his resolve not to push back against her and take what he wants. 

 

“Is this custom made?” Grace asks, looking over at Harold, who has unzipped his fly and is stroking himself in rhythm to her thrusts.

 

“Hm?” Harold asks, distracted, moving his gaze up from where he has been watching John writhe on the bed. “Oh, yes. I estimated your measurements, I hope it’s comfortable?”

 

Grace chuckles, rubbing herself up against the material and pushing in deeper, and John gives a desperate whine beneath her.

 

“Very,” she is. “I guess money really can buy anything.”

 

John is mumbling something into Harold’s expensive thousand thread count sheets. 

 

“John, I’m afraid I didn’t catch that,” Harold says, except Grace can tell by the hitch in his breathing that he is not unaffected by far, the rhythm of his strokes faltering every time John makes a low noise of pleasure in the back of his throat. 

 

“Faster, harder, please,” John repeats, a little louder, and Grace bites her lip.

 

She expects Harold to make some kind of quip about how it’s always these two with John, or to ask her to hold still completely, but Harold just crawls over to John.

He presses his fingers under John’s jaw and John looks up at him, obedient, his dark hair curling with sweat at the temples. Harold runs his fingertips over his cheekbones, his mouth, before looking up at Grace.

 

“You heard him, love, go ahead.”

 

Grace holds on even tighter to John’s hips, thrusting forward all the way and John moans and rocks back against her, every movement putting delicious pressure on her clit. She can feel her own orgasm building, but keeps her hips moving, and when Harold reaches down between the sheets to curl his hand around John’s cock, stroking him in time with her thrusting, John comes with a shout. 

 

Grace holds on to steady herself, her own climax breaking over her like sparks exploding beneath her vision. 

 

Once she feels like she can gather a coherent thought again, she carefully pulls out and sinks down on her back next to John, her muscles quivering with the exertion.

 

John makes an incoherent noise next to her and she pats his shoulder. 

 

“You’ll have to take care of that yourself this time, I’m not getting up from this bed ever again,” Grace says, vaguely motioning over to where Harold is sitting, his hand lazily moving over his erection, in no hurry at all.

Harold gives her a brilliant smile.

 

“I think the two of you gave me enough to work with,” he says.


	3. And a mind of thoughts and secrecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harold/beth, harold/john implied, episode tag for 4.06

It’s after midnight in Hong Kong and Harold probably should have known that when Beth said that she needed a drink after the scare of being robbed on the street, she meant a drink from the mini bar in her room rather than a glass of water in the hotel lobby.

 

He sits on the chair next to the wooden desk, miniature whisky bottle in hand - not his taste, but he is glad for the distraction - while Beth has slipped off her shoes and is sitting at the foot of her bed, kicking back the content of a miniature vodka bottle before setting it aside. 

 

“I usually don’t invite colleagues over to my room in the middle of the night,” she says self-consciously, one hand fussing with her hair, her bottom lip between her teeth.

 

Harold attempts a smile, but he is not sure how well it comes out:

He is out of practice.

 

“It was a rather exciting evening,” he says. 

 

Beth smoothes imaginary wrinkles out of the fabric of her dress.

 

Harold knows that she’s waiting for him to make a move, and he knows that it would be the right call: Spend the night with her, be sweet and attentive in the morning, maybe secure himself future access to her work and thoughts that way. 

 

He places the half full bottle on the desk. 

 

“This isn’t how I expected the night to go,” he says, turning towards her, opening up his body language.

 

Her face brightens.

 

“What did you have in mind for the rest of the night?” Beth asks, the blush on her cheeks betraying the surprise she must feel at her own boldness.

 

He likes this, and that’s a problem: The easy banter, her sweet smile, the way she looks at him like she is not afraid to want something, the distracting chemistry of feelings that might not be there now, but could be, in a few weeks or months maybe. 

 

“Allow me to demonstrate,” Harold says, and stands up.

 

When he puts his hands on her cheeks and kisses her, she draws in a long, excited breath, her hands coming up to his shoulders, and in a moment of weakness, he is glad that he won’t have to spend the night alone for once.

 

–

 

He expected her to push like she did in their conversations, try to establish herself as the person in charge, but instead she just lies back and pulls him down to her with barely any force behind it, content to lay back and let him take charge. 

 

Harold tries to distract himself from the moment by considering a number of problems with his most recent pieces of coding, but while attraction might not be a problem, his mind being preoccupied with lines of codes might be, so he leans down to kiss her, trying to concentrate on the physical. 

 

She’s sweet and funny and it reminds him of – no, Grace was different, not like Beth at all. Grace was laughter and tugging at his clothes and climbing over him, her hair falling into her face. 

 

Beth’s hands are on the naked skin of his back and Harold takes a deep breath. He’ll need to be a little more convincing than he is right now, but he can’t be without actually caring, so maybe –

 

Nathan, maybe, with the astonished way he would look up at Harold, as if he was some kind of miracle: Harold draws up a picture of him in his mind. 

 

Nathan was a good kisser, but sex with him was urgent, both of them barely out of their clothes before they collapsed on Nathan’s bed in their dorm room, desperately hard and both panting, their hands tangled between their bodies in an attempt to get the slide of skin on skin.

 

Beth sighs beneath him and Harold puts his hand between her legs to rub his thumb against her clit in time to his thrusting.

 

She’s beautiful and clearly enjoying herself, and while his body is responding appropriately, he can feel his mind drifting, away from the memories of Grace and Nathan, too painful by now to enjoy. 

 

“But Harry,” Root’s voice says in his head, “I thought you liked her.”

 

“That’s rather the problem,” he answers imaginary Root in his head. “I like her well enough, but I require a certain level of - attachment, so to speak, that I’m not able or willing to establish with Beth, I’m afraid.”

 

The Root in his mind smiles slowly, before pulling her black dress over her head. He doesn’t look away this time.

 

“Does this help?” she asks. 

 

Harold thinks about Root and her intelligent eyes and her long legs and the way she would end up on top every time before stopping his own train of thought.

 

“You’re not even interested in men,” he says.

 

Imaginary Root shrugs.

 

Beneath him, Beth is getting closer, saying his name and digging her nails into his shoulder.

 

“You are, though,” she says, pulling a face. “I mean, I don’t care for John myself, but –“

 

Oh, yes. John. 

 

Harold feels a sharp tug in his stomach at the thought, like the smallest bit of electricity. 

 

“Oh, you’d like that, though, wouldn’t you?” Imaginary Root says.

 

The thing is: Harold would, apparently, because the thought makes him shiver and speed up his thrusts, and suddenly breathing is more difficult than before when he thinks about John, his dear John spread out on his bed, about putting his mouth on every inch of John’s body.

 

“Harold,” Beth says, her voice rough, and then she clenches around him, throwing her head back.

 

“Harold,” the imaginary John in Harold’s head says, looking up at him through his dark lashes, kneeling on Harold’s bed, and Harold’s hips stutter and he’s coming with his eyes shut, carefully avoiding to say anyone’s name at all. 

 

–

 

When he returns to his own room the next morning, he takes the phone and dials the number without thinking.

 

“Harold?” John says at the other end. “Are you alright?” and Harold shudders deliciously at the sound of his name in John’s mouth. 

 

“We should have a drink sometime, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, and this time the smile comes easily.


	4. I've been waiting all my life (you're not a day too soon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reese/Finch, domestic!fic, cuddling.

John loves his apartment: The light flooding in through the windows, all the space he has to move around, the large bed that lets him stretch his limbs and sprawl across the covers.

He’s especially fond of the couch, though:

There’s a corner that Harold has claimed, pillows stacked against the upholstery to support his back, a soft blanket thrown over the back for when the nights get colder.

John insists on doing the dishes himself, refills Harold’s wine glass and tells him to get lost, and Harold gives him a long-suffering sigh and leans in to kiss him, sweet and familiar, John’s hands dripping with dishwater between them.

When John turns off the light in the kitchen and walks into the living room, Harold has already made himself comfortable in his favorite spot. He has taken off his tie and vest, the first three buttons of his shirt undone, a paperback copy of _Great Expectations_ opened in his lap, all soft around the corners, the pages tattered and familiar.

John leans down to give Bear a treat and scratch his ears for a moment before Bear retreats to his dog bed in the corner and curls up to sleep.

When John sits down next to Harold on the couch, Harold slides a bookmark between the pages - he never places books “face down” onto the table - and puts it aside before opening his arms for John.

They _fit_ , John curled up against Harold’s side with his long legs folded up against him, touching along the whole line of their bodies.

“Hello,” Harold says, and leans down to kiss John, fingers resting at the nape of John’s neck, idly stroking the skin above his collar.

John curls closer so he can run his hand over Harold’s belly and chest, and Harold slides a hand into his hair, fingers gently massaging his scalp.

John could stay like this forever:

Soft, gentle kisses and the warmth of Harold’s body against him, letting himself be petted.

Harold’s arm around his shoulders is a familiar weight, keeping him close, and John sighs and nuzzles Harold’s throat, buries his face against his shoulder.

Harold lets his hand draw soothing circles on John’s back, rubbing lightly, his mouth pressed against John’s forehead.

“If you wanted to read your book, I don’t mind,” John says against Harold’s throat, nose bumping against his jaw, and Harold laughs.

“Do you think that I don’t get sufficiently entertained here?”

John’s whole face breaks open in a happy, satisfied smile, and Harold leans in again to press his lips against John’s, to run his tongue over the inner seam of his lips until John sighs and melts against him.

When they part, John curls closer, craving even more contact.

“Would you read to me?” He asks, his thumb stroking over the back of Harold’s hand.

“Would you enjoy that?” Harold asks, sounding amused, and John breathes _“Yes,”_ instantly.

Harold kisses the tip of his nose.

“Alright, then.”

He disentangles himself to grab the book from the coffee table and opens it to the first page.

John rearranges himself until his head rests in Harold’s lap, long legs stretched out on the couch.

Harold holds up the book with one hand, the other one comes back down to stroke through John’s hair.

“Comfortable?” Harold asks.

“Hmm,” John says, turning his head so he can kiss Harold’s fabric-clad thigh.

Harold clears his throat, John’s eyes fluttering shut when Harold massages his scalp in slow, generous circles, his fingers running through the soft hair.

 _“My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip,”_ Harold begins, and John lets himself relax into the smooth, melodic sound of Harold’s voice. _“My infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.”_


	5. leather jacket!porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reese/finch, john's motorcycle gear, pwp

„I didn’t realize that - ah - motorcycle gear was such a turn-on for you,” John says where Harold is pressing him firmly against the door, his teeth leaving possessive marks against John’s throat, over the skin of his collarbone.

John still wears the black jeans and heavy boots along with the soft black leather jacket.

His helmet rolled away somewhere under a table when Harold ambushed him as soon as John came into the apartment, kissing him fiercely.

“It only works when it’s _you_ ,” Harold says, sliding his thigh between John’s legs, his hands sneaking under the leather, stroking his sides. John gasps, rutting up against Harold’s leg, all delicious friction, and Harold tugs at his belt, tells him “Bedroom. Now.” and all John can do is stumble along with him, not willing to take his hands off Harold for even a second.

Once they get there, Harold makes short work of his belt and fly while John lets the leather jacket slide off his shoulders and starts unbuttoning Harold’s waistcoat.

Harold makes an impatient noise and tugs at John’s shirt, for once too turned on to form words, and John laughs and raises his arms, lets Harold pull the fabric over his head and drop it somewhere next to the bed.

Harold’s hands are roaming over his chest when John leans in close for more kissing, and Harold caresses a nipple with thumb and index finger, rolling the hart nub between his clever fingers until John’s knees nearly go weak with it.

John stops kissing Harold to peel him out of his waistcoat and shirt and unbutton his pants before sliding his fingers over the hardness of his groin, Harold’s cock twitching under his hand, the front of his green silk boxers dark and wet with precome.

Once they’ve finally lost enough fabric for Harold to pull him close and kiss him again, John steps out of his underwear, completely naked.

Harold puts his mouth close against John’s ear and says: “Put the jacket back on” and John’s hands tighten on Harold’s arms.

He must be quite a sight, later:

Spread out on his back, naked beneath the smooth black leather jacket, trapping the heat of his chest and back so sweat is running in rivulets over his skin.

Harold is kneeling in front of him, fucking him in steady thrusts, hand curled around John’s cock.

“You’ve been driving me mad all week wearing that damn thing, climbing off that motorcycle, grinning at every camera in the vicinity,” Harold says, voice rough, and John whimpers when the head of Harold’s cock hits his prostate.

He lets his hand move down all the way to the base of John’s cock, his fingers slick with precome, before stroking back up in a smooth, slow movement that drives John insane with want.

“Been wanting to do this for days,” Harold pants, and John curls his hands into the bunched up sheets, the leather hot and slick against his skin, sweat running down his temples.

“Fuck, yeah, that’s -- god, I’m so close,” John says, shuddering when Harold tugs at his cock faster.

John’s hands are white-knuckled on the sheets, his back arching off the mattress.

“Hands,” Harold says, suddenly, and John lets go off the sheets and holds them out instantly.

Harold grabs John’s wrists with his free hand and pushes them over his head, moving forward in one sweet thrust that knocks the air out of John’s lungs.

John lets his arms drop behind his head on the pillow, wrists crossed as if bound by invisible rope, the leather jacket riding up higher, brushing his sensitive nipples.

John cranes his neck so Harold can kiss him, deep and dirty, before moving back and pushing into him again.

“I should have tied you up, given you a taste of what frustration feels like,” Harold says and John whines, “Maybe I’ll spend an afternoon having you like that, tied up and desperate, at my mercy…” Harold speeds up his thrusts, his thumb circling the head of John’s cock on every upstroke, teasing the slit. “To make up for all of the times I sat in my chair at the library, watching you on a camera feed, wearing those tight jeans and that darn leatherjacket, climbing off your motorcycle, your hair mussed up under your helmet. I was so hard I couldn’t concentrate until I got myself off while watching you --“

John makes a desperate noise and throws his head back, spilling over Harold’s hand and his own stomach.

Harold shudders against him moments after, gripping John’s hips and releasing a shaky breath when he climaxes.

After, Harold pulls out gingerly, disposing of the condom before stretching out beside John, both of them panting heavily.

“That was --,” John starts, chuckling a little, his whole body tingling with pleasure.

“Indeed,” Harold says, his glasses fogged and askew.

John smiles and pushes them back up the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll need to buy some more leather jackets, I think,” John says, beaming.

“Oh dear god,” Harold mumbles, closing his eyes, but his smile is fond.


	6. top!john

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reese/finch,top!john (feat. harold topping from the bottom), established relationship, pwp

“Is there a problem, Mr. Reese?” Harold asks, raising an eyebrow, sounding dignified even spread out completely naked in John’s bed and with John kneeling between his thighs, stroking his skin reverently.

John smiles, a quick, embarrassed quirk of the mouth. 

“I’ll just –,” he says, gesturing to the bottle of lube next to him, and Harold crooks his fingers, drawing him in.

John comes willingly, stretching out luxuriously over Harold’s body, enjoying the slide of skin on skin, his own erection trapped between their bellies. 

Harold tilts John’s chin up and kisses him, says against his lips: “You’re not going to hurt me, John.”

John tries to hide his face against Harold’s shoulder, but Harold’s hand under his chin keeps him in his line of vision.

“I am very aware of my body’s limitations, John. Turning my head, stairs, prolonged walking - many physical tasks are difficult, often painful, and many times rather awkward. What we’re attempting here - namely, you fucking me rather thoroughly –“

John’s breath stops at the profanity, the sound even more obscene in Harold’s blasé inflection, his hips jerking against the warm skin of Harold’s thighs. 

“– is not one of those things, I can assure you,” Harold says, running his hands over John’s back, cupping his ass.

John hisses, rolling his hips instinctively. 

“That is,” Harold continues, sliding his hands back up, over John’s sides and up to his chest, “only in case you actually _want to_ , of course,” Harold says innocently, fingertips teasing his nipples lightly.

John moans at the touch.

“God, Harold, of course I do,” he says, eyes fluttering shut.

  
Harold says: “Then _have_ me,” and a full-body shiver runs through John at the words, tingling down all the way to his toes. 

“Yes,” John says, kissing Harold’s lips before sliding down his body again, opening the bottle of lube with shaking hands and squeezing a dollop into his hands, warming it up.

Harold spreads his legs, lets his knees sink against the pillows. 

John places a hand against the inside of Harold’s thigh, a wordless declaration, and then starts spreading the lube, working one fingertip inside, past the tight sphincter.

Harold’s breathing deeply, relaxing against John’s hand as much as he can, and John strokes the inside of his knee, leans down to press soft kisses against it.

John works slowly, gently, only adding another finger when he feels that Harold is accustomed to the stretch.

Harold makes a soft noise, his hips twitching a little, and John resists the temptation to withdraw his hand immediately.

“Harold?” He asks. “Did I –“

“No, it’s good, it’s _good_ , a little - a little to the left there,” Harold says, voice rough, and John obeys, crooking his finger, and Harold makes a sound, gasping, rocking against him.

 _“Fuck,_ ” Harold says, with feeling, and John smiles against the skin of his knee.

“Language,” John admonishes, and Harold puts  the pillow behind him under his head so he can watch John better. 

“Instead of a grammar lesson,” he says, in that tone of voice that races like a shudder down John’s spine, “why don’t you quit with the teasing and actually _do me_?”

“Jesus,” John chokes out, withdrawing his fingers and blindly reaching for the condoms, “I didn’t realize you’d have such a dirty mouth in bed.”

John prepares himself, scoots closer on the bed, angling himself in, the blunt head of his cock pressing inside.

Harold’s breath stutters in his chest before he can compose himself, letting his legs relax again, easing off where he was clutching the sheets.

“John, would you _please_ fuck me?” Harold asks, panting with it, sweat glittering on his forehead, and John places his palms on Harold’s hips and pushes in, angling for the sweet spot he hit earlier. 

Harold makes a noise low in his throat, grabbing John’s right hand where it is resting against his hip, and John entwines their fingers, lets him hold on.

“Is this – Is this alright, Harold –“

“Please, John, move,” Harold chokes out, and John’s hips snap against him on their own accord, pushing in deeper.

Harold makes little, breathless sounds, mumbling _“yes”_ and _“John”_ , and John gets bolder, setting a rhythm, taking Harold’s cock in his hand where it has been resting hard and leaking against Harold’s stomach, and Harold whines at that, “yes, please, yes”, his grip on John’s hand actually painful. 

John still hesitates, but then Harold groans and fixes his eyes on him, and says: “ _Harder,_ John, now,” apparently done with polite requests, and John bites down hard on his own lip and thrusts deeply, nearly pulling out all the way before sliding back in, and Harold makes an appreciative noise before he moans low and deep when John hits his prostate just right. 

It doesn’t take long, John stroking him in time with his thrusts and then Harold breathes his name and spills over John’s hand, and John’s rhythm falters, pleasure coiling low in his gut before he feels himself shake and climax, hands gripping Harold’s hips, still holding on to his hand.

John pulls out, carefully disposing on the condom, and goes to the bathroom to find a washcloth and a towel. When he comes back, Harold is blinking at the ceiling, idly scratching at his stomach.

“Are you okay?” John asks. “Are you in any pain, do you need anything?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, I’m quite alright,” Harold says, stretching luxuriously.

John climbs next to him on the bed and takes his time running the warm, wet washcloth over Harold’s skin, cleaning him up, and then drying him off with a fluffy towel.

Harold sighs, content, letting John take care of him. 

John collects the items and brings them back to the bathroom. He turns off the lights when he comes back, watching the way Harold is spread out in his bed, all loose-limbed and pleased.

“John?” Harold asks, and John immediately walks over to him.

“Come back to bed,” Harold mumbles drowsily, and John smiles and climbs under the covers.

“You’ve done so well today,” Harold says, and John kisses Harold’s throat, his collarbones, curls up close and finally lets himself close his eyes. 

 

– fin


	7. the one where john adopts a chihuahua

John turns his earpiece on the same moment the tiny dog in front of him chooses to bark accusingly.

 _"Mr. Reese?"_ Harold's voice sounds even more scandalized than usual. _"Did I just hear a dog barking?"_

John groans. The Chihuahua stands up on its hind legs, annoyed that John is taking so long to get out of bed. "Would you believe me if I said that it was Bear?"

 _"Well, since Bear is currently curled up on his pillow to my right and that bark sounded suspiciously like a small breed, I have to say my suspension of disbelief only extends so far,"_ Harold says.

John scrubs a hand over his face. The Chihuahua belonged to the girlfriend of one of the drug dealers they took down during their latest mission: the lady had high-tailed it out of the city and left the little, yapping dog with his pink sequin collar behind in the warehouse they had used for their operation. After shooting a few kneecaps and tying up the rest of the guys for Fusco, John should have gone and dropped the dog off at the animal shelter, but it was _late_ and she was shivering where he had tucked her into his jacket, and he just didn't have the heart to do it, so he took her home with him. 

"I'll take care of it right after breakfast, Harold," John says.

The dog is licking at his hand with its little pink tongue. What John doesn't tell Harold is that he snapped out of a nightmare in the middle of the night because she had climbed onto the bed and started licking his face, and then curled up protectively next to him. John is pretty sure that Chihuahuas aren't typically trained as PTSD service dogs, but maybe she just picked up on his distress.

He gets out of bed and puts some more of the chicken breast he made for her last night – cooked in boiling water and without salt or spices – in a bowl that he sets on the ground, then he goes to make coffee.

\--

John manages to walk up all the way to the fence of the dog shelter. The dog is tiny enough that she fits into his palm where he cradles her against his chest. John can hear the sounds of dogs barking, hears the wind rattle the metal cages. The dog looks up at him with pleading, dark eyes.

\--

"Why would you bring a rat into the subway, I'm sure there are more than enough of them already down here if you go looking," Shaw says.

John sets the Chihuahua down onto the floor. She runs up to Bear and barks at him at ear-splitting volume, running in circles around him until Bear leans down to take her into his mouth and carry her away by the scruff of her neck.

"Please tell me you did not bond with a Chihuahua," Harold says, rubbing his temple like just the idea is giving him a tension headache. "As opposed to popular rumors, I actually do not run a home for strays."

"If there's a vote about which one to keep between John and the tiny dog, I vote for the Chihuahua," Root says. 

\--

Despite Harold's best attempts, the dog stays.

Despite  _John's_ best attempts, Root gets to name her. (" _Princess Celestia_ is a perfectly legitimate dog name, John," she says, batting her eyelashes at him.)

Shaw keeps talking at length about how tiny, overbread purse puppies should not be counted as actual dogs, but keeps sneaking Princess Celestia bacon treats under the table when nobody is looking.

Mostly, the dog stays in the subway, curled up next to Bear on his dog pillow ("I thought he was going to eat her just to shut her up," Shaw says, frowning at the two of them.).

At night, John takes Princess Celestia home and lets her sleep in his bed, a decision that he regrets by the time he ends up taking  _Harold_ home after an evening of awkward emotional conversations and love confessions. At some point, Harold stops kissing him in favor of saying: "Oh please tell me Princess Celestia doesn't get  _to sleep in your bed_ ."

John shrugs, a little sheepishly. "She wakes me up when I have nightmares," he says by way of an explanation.

Harold huffs. "It's been bad enough how you've been carrying this dog around, petting and kissing her and letting her sleep on your lap–"

"Why Harold," John drawls, stepping closer. "Are you saying you were jealous of a Chihuahua?"

Harold's ears turn an interesting shade of pink. Princess Celestia ends up sleeping in the living room that night.

 


	8. the one where john hooks up with mike ross from suits.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

John turns around. The guy next to him looks about as tired as John feels.

"I'm not trying to sell you anything, I swear,” he says. “It's just that I kind of screwed up monumentally at work today, and drinking by yourself is kinda pathetic."

John grins despite himself. "Funny, to say that to the guy who is drinking alone by himself in a bar."

Surprise flickers over the man's face, then his features settle into a bashful expression that makes him look very young. He's handsome: boyish features, short blonde hair, _really_ nice suit with a skinny tie. "Good point. Are you a lawyer? 'Cause that's kinda what my boss would have said. I mean that and ' _Suck it up and do the work next time, dickhead'._ I'm Mike, by the way." He holds out his hand.

John shakes it, amused. "John. Your boss sounds like a charmer."

"Oh, he  _is_ ," Mike says, flagging the bartender down and motioning at John's half-empty Scotch glass and his own beer. "He's the Michael Jordan of the law. I think Michael Jordan is  _actually_ his client, by the way. I mean that or he was shitting me, both possible options." 

John takes a look at his watch. He should probably get going, Finch won't be pleased if he shows up at the library sleep deprived and with a hangover tomorrow.

"Hey, I'm gonna take a leak, are you still gonna be here when I get back?" Mike asks. He looks from John's face down the line of his body before he catches himself.

"Sure," John says easily. "I want to hear everything about the monumental screw-up at work."

Mike gives him a look like he can't really believe that and then makes a beeline for the bathroom. John reaches for his wallet. The kid is cute, and for a moment John entertains the thought of not spending the night alone. The last time John took some guy from a bar home, he got a sloppy blowjob out of it: that and the feeling of a warm body next to his, somebody wanting him, even if just for a moment. These escapades usually turn sour when John makes it clear that it was a one-time thing, though. He isn't down for anything long-term, couldn't make it work even if he wanted to, with his day job and all the baggage he is dragging around with him. Mostly, he is glad if the other guy doesn't notice the the scars on John's body in the darkness, or has the decency not to say anything about it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket just as John is about to pay for his drink and leave. It's a text from a number John doesn't recognize. It reads:

STAY

John frowns. Finch has never texted him from that number, and usually his messages are a lot less cryptic. John looks at the security camera on the ceiling. His phone buzzes again:

ADMIN

Well,  _that_ doesn't help. John raises his hand to his earpiece to call Finch and ask him about the weird messages when the screen on his phone lights up again:

ADMIN IS WATCHING

John lowers his hand. His gaze moves back to the camera on instinct before he catches himself and stares into his Scotch instead. John has a sudden flashback to a night a few weeks ago, when he was home with some random stranger he had picked up at a bar and noticed that the security cameras on the street had suddenly, inexplicably swung around to change their angle, pointing directly into his living room.

John takes his phone and presses 'REPLY'.

_is harold spying on me?_ , he types. Then he deletes 'spying' and types 'checking in' instead. 

Another buzz.

ADMIN IS WATCHING

_Yes,_ John thinks, a little unnerved,  _you already mentioned that._

He types: _what do you want me to do?_

There is a long pause, then, just as John takes a sip from his drink:

SUGGESTED COURSE OF ACTION: CONCLUDE SOCIAL CONTRACT & RELOCATE W/ MR. ROSS TO YOUR PLACE OF RESIDENCE

John nearly chokes on his Scotch. He is pretty sure that the Machine just suggested that he should go and fuck a guy he met at a bar.

Mike sits down at the bar again. "Hey," he says warmly. He pushes his bar stool closer to the counter, his knee lightly brushing John's thigh. "I didn't think you'd still be here after I came back."

The knowledge that Harold is watching – has been, probably, the few times John has allowed himself to fuck someone – makes John feel like somebody turned on the heat in the room, like there is a spotlight burning at the back of his neck. John slides his phone back into his pocket. "I figured I might stay for another drink," he says, lowering his voice and opening up his body language, and Mike ducks his head, pleased.

"This day isn't going to be as shitty as I originally thought," he says, and takes a swig from his bottle.

\--

There is really no good way to say _Just so you know, my boss is probably spying on us right this second, and I kinda get off on it,_ so John leaves it alone. Mike wanders around John's living room, sipping on a glass of water. He stopped drinking after his second beer, like he wanted to make sure he'd be sober for this. John feels flattered.

Mike has opened the knot of his tie and folded his jacket over a chair, and his sleeves are rolled up to expose his bare arms. "Really nice place you've got here," he says. "What was it that you were doing again?"

"Hedge fund trade," John says. The cameras are pointed into his living room again. John really hopes that Mike isn't going to ask John to close the blinds.

Mike turns to look at him. "Yeah, you don't strike me as a hedge fund manager, John," he says, but he sounds amused.

"Well, and you're different from most lawyers I've met," John says. He takes off his own jacket and puts it over the arm of the couch. "For one, most of them brag about their university degree before they even ask your name. So what's your story, Mike? Harvard or Yale? Or are you maybe a Columbia man?"

Something passes over Mike's face. "Yeah, I am making an executive decision here," he says, motioning with his glass. "And that decision  _is:_ to not talk about work anymore. Work is boring."

John steps closer into his space and takes the glass out of his hand to set it down on the table. "And I'm not boring?" He lowers his voice, watches the way it makes Mike swallow and blush a little.

"I haven'd decided  _what_ you are yet," Mike says. He hooks his thumbs into John's belt loops to pull him close. "But you're definitely not boring."

John leans down to kiss him, and that turns out to be a good idea: Mike is an  _enthusiastic_ kisser. He melts against John and licks into his mouth and finds the coordination to tug at his shirt at the same time, and John grins into his mouth. "Impatient, are you?"

"I prefer the term  _highly motivated_ ," Mike says, leaning down to nip at John's throat. "Fuck, you're hot."

People have told John before that they find him attractive, but it still gives him a little, vain thrill to see how wound up he managed to get Mike, who looks about ready to strip out of his clothes at record speed. John puts his palms on both sides of his face and angles him up for a kiss, deep and dirty, and Mike's hands clench in the fabric of John's shirt. When they part, they are both panting, tenting their pants. John wonders absently if Harold has a good view.

"I think I saw a nice bed over there," Mike says. "Not that I'm not down to doing this on the floor, like, right this second, because honestly, I  _am --"_

"You talk too much," John says, sliding a hand down between them to cup Mike through his pants, and Mike makes a choked noise.

"You're wearing too many fucking clothes," he says, grabbing John's belt and tugging him in the direction of the bed.

John can't disagree with that.

\--

If Mike wonders why a manager in some swanky NYC office has a body peppered with scars, he doesn't let it show. He is, John thinks, weirdly accepting of the things John told him about his cover identity: John wonders if it's because he really,  _really_ wants to get laid or if Mike has a few secrets of his own that he would rather not draw attention to. 

As soon as they're out of their clothes and on the bed, though, John doesn't really care, either way: he makes sure that they end up sprawled on the sheets in excellent view of the camera, and his phone stays completely silent.

Mike seems to like John's body  _a lot,_ judging by the way he strokes his hands over John's bicep and licks and bites at John's chest and stomach. "What do you want?" He asks. "I can make some suggestions, if you want," he offers, licking at John's nipple. "I have a photographic memory, I don't know if I mentioned that."

"I thought maybe you'd like to fuck me," John says innocently.

Mike's hips jerk against him. "Jesus  _Christ_ , you can't just ask a guy that without warning," he says, biting his lip. "I mean yeah, sure, yeah, totally. Are you sure?"

John rolls them over. He grabs Mike's wrists loosely and pins them down above his head, and Mike makes a very excited noise. "Unless you'd rather have it like this," John says. Mike seems tempted for a moment, something bright and sharp flickering in his eyes at the way John holds him down.

Then he grins. "I'm always up for a challenge," he says.

\--

"Yeah, that's it," John says, spreading his legs wider.

Mike's breath hitches when he slides in, his body warm and solid on top of John. "Christ, you feel amazing," he says, pressing his mouth against John's collarbone.

John slides his hands up Mike's shoulders and moves his hips, and that's even better: John just lets his body follow along, lets himself get lost in it.

Mike rocks into him, his breath hot against John's throat, gasping "Shit, yeah, that's so good, fuck."

John lets his head fall back, moaning, and that's when it occurs to him: the security camera outside is still directed at them, picking up every movement, every thrust and kiss and motion of their bodies. John remembers, with a sudden, white hot clarity, that Harold is _watching,_ seeing John getting fucked on one of his computer screens at the library, probably touching himself while – oh, _shit._ John comes so hard he thinks he might black out for a second. 

On top of him Mike makes a desperate noise and suddenly goes boneless, and John reaches up to pet the sweaty hair at the back of his neck, his eyes still fixed to the security camera outside.

 


	9. to be alone with you (harold & erectile dysfunction)

"I just think that you should be with someone who isn't damaged, given the choice," Harold says, and John's heart breaks a little for him.

Harold sounds like he is stating something obvious, and John thinks of the self-deprecating way Harold sometimes talks about his body: a faulty machine, a flawed system.

"I really don't mind," John says. His voice sounds unsteady, mostly because he can't bring himself to say the things he really wants to say: _you're not damaged, there's no part of you I don't love._

Harold gives him a disbelieving stare, like John is claiming that Asimov is absurdly overrated or that the sky is green. "John, I'm not saying that I don't want to have a relationship with you. Much the opposite, in fact; I will gladly give you everything that I'm able to give. You should just consider that there are other people who might be able to fulfill your needs–"

John does a mental double-take. "Are you suggesting that I should go and sleep with other people?"

Harold's smile looks unsteady, like it might slide off his face any second. "Mr. Pierce was very interested in your company, if I recall correctly."

"Jesus Christ, Harold," John says. He feels like he's going to throw up. A sharp, ugly feeling is coiling in John's stomach, a kind of anger that makes him reckless, lightheaded. _Fine._ If Harold wants him to go and fuck other people, maybe he should go and fuck other people.

Then, suddenly Harold reaches out and takes John's hand. He studies it carefully, his thumb tracing John's knuckles, the scars and callouses over his fingers. He doesn't meet John's eyes. "I am not trying to push you away," Harold says quietly. "I am saying that I understand if I am not enough for you."

John exhales, the anger draining out of him. He slides to his knees in one fluid motion, presses his cheek against Harold's thigh. Harold's other hand comes to rest on John's head instinctively, soothing him.

John closes his eyes. "You're more than enough for me," he says. "I don't care if we ever– even if we never have sex, even if you never _touch me again._ I'd sit on the couch next to your desk forever and it still would be–" _Enough_ , he wants to say, but his voice breaks on the words, brittle.

"Alright," Harold says, softly, wonderingly. "I'm sorry I brought it up, John."

John clings to Harold's thigh, inhales the smell of wool and rubs his cheek against the coarse fabric. _Just don't make me leave,_ John thinks.

Harold's hands are steady, and John stays curled up against him until his knees start to hurt.

\--

Sometimes, John gets overwhelmed with all the things he wants to do in bed, everything he wants to try. He wants to cradle Harold's head in his hands and kiss him for hours, curl up in his arms and hold his hand. He wants to put his hands on every inch of Harold's body, make him sigh and smile and run his hands through John's hair in silent gratitude.

John loves to nuzzle Harold's soft cock, hear his gasp when John takes it into his mouth. Harold doesn't get hard, but John doesn't mind. He noses into Harold's pubic hair and rubs his cheek over his naked thigh, mouths at his skin. John's favorite thing to do is to push a pillow under Harold's hips and put his mouth on him, lick into him until Harold is sobbing with pleasure.

This time, John lies down next to him after and molds himself to Harold's back. He aligns his cock and rocks into him where he is all wet and open, his arms wrapped around Harold's chest.

"Oh, _yes_ ," Harold says, clutching at John's arms, his voice shaking on the words.

John thrusts into him gently, kisses the tears from his cheek. He cradles a hand around Harold's soft cock, and Harold shudders in his embrace. When John moves his hips again, Harold sobs brokenly and his soft cock twitches and spills into John's hand.

"Ssh," John says. He kisses the rough scar tissue on Harold's neck. "I've got you, it's alright."

Harold tugs at John's arm and John holds him tighter, cradles Harold to his chest.

"I believe you," Harold says softly, and John closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the nape of Harold's neck, utterly at peace.

 


	10. reese/finch morning after ficlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for villainny.

John opens his eyes and stretches luxuriously on the high thread count sheets of the bed. He feels pleasantly sore when he moves. He hopes it will last for days, reminding him.

John turns around to find the other side of the bed empty. The pillow is fluffed up and the sheets are drawn back. John slides his hand over the fabric, but it’s cool under his touch, no trace of body heat left. The ache that settles into his chest at the sight is familiar; if anything, John should have been surprised by its absence.

He should probably get dressed and leave – he can shower at his own place before going to the library. John rolls over and buries his face in Harold’s pillow, inhaling his scent. _Stupid_. He should have known, even when he had his arms wrapped around Harold, when John was letting his head fall back against the pillow, making broken, desperate noises, that this wouldn’t last.

Surely Harold has come to his senses. Surely he will wait for John at the library, typing away at his computer, perfectly composed in his three-piece suit. John sighs. Dwelling on it won’t do him any good, so he might as well get on with it. All the bed does is remind him of things: Harold’s small, surprised gasp when John took him in his mouth, the things he said when they were moving together under the sheets, _John_ and _please_ and _my dearest._

John’s clothes are carefully placed over the arm of a chair in the corner. Harold must have picked them up, John thinks. He vividly remembers leaving a trail of clothing strewn on the floor while they were making their way towards the bed, opening buttons and zippers and shedding fabric as they went.

He gets dressed and opens the door to the hallway. When he passes the kitchen, John is greeted by the smell of coffee and the sizzling of bacon in a pan. He stops dead in his tracks, his hands tightening on the suit jacket draped over his arm.

Harold is wearing a dark blue bathrobe and he’s bent over the stove, prodding at a portion of bacon with a fork. He has set the small table in the kitchen with glasses of orange juice, plates with toast and Eggs Benedict on them, a cup of tea for himself and a coffee for John.

Harold transfers the bacon into a bowl and turns off the stove, then he turns around and gives John a friendly, if mildly confused look. “You’re up already,” he says, and then: “And you got dressed.” He sounds, John thinks, actually disappointed that John put any clothes on at all, and John is so giddy with happiness all of a sudden that he could burst with it.

“Yeah, I–” John gestures to his suit jacket. _I thought you’d left. I thought you were gone. I thought I’d lost you like I always lose everyone_. “I didn’t plan on spending the night, so I didn’t pack the right… morning attire.”

Harold sets down the bowl on the table. There’s a small, red bruise on his throat above his collar bone that John sucked into the skin the night before. John folds his jacket over the back of the couch and rolls up his sleeves, walking towards the table. Harold meets him halfway to kiss him, a casual kiss with his mouth closed like they’ve been doing this every day for years, and John’s heart feels so big and full in his chest that he’s afraid there isn’t enough space for it to expand.

“Well, I don’t think we’ll spend the majority of the time dressed, anyway,” Harold says, his eyes sparkling with humor, and John pulls him close by the belt of his dressing gown to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.


End file.
